


Out of Place

by pepperlandgirl4



Category: Star Trek RPF, Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperlandgirl4/pseuds/pepperlandgirl4
Summary: ST: TWOK-era. This was inspired after I saw the Captain's Summit clip when Nimoy said that originally, Spock was meant to stay dead.





	

Leonard didn’t ask him if he had cried, or would cry again. For one thing, he knew the answer. For another thing, the answer didn’t matter. Sometimes, Bill slipped on Kirk’s persona so easily, he forgot to take it off again. Normally, this was a blessing. Leonard was convinced Bill was at his best when he forgot he was acting altogether—when his amusement was genuine, his anger coming from a real place inside him, his charm nothing more than an extension of his life. But in that moment, it wasn’t a blessing. It wasn’t a blessing at all. It was the worst thing he had ever seen. 

Somebody was playing a recording of _Amazing Grace._ Very softly. Maybe just testing the audio levels for the shot. On another day, the irony would have made Leonard laugh. What significance would the hymn have to a Vulcan? He knew the words, though. Absorbed them somewhere, and bits and pieces snagged his mind. _Was blind but now I see._

Why had he insisted on being on the set? His final shot had wrapped two days before, and he didn’t need to return to the sound stage again. But he wanted to see the filming through to the end, even if it gave him a curious twist in his heart to know he was never returning to that stage, to that set, to work with these people. He wouldn’t look Bill in the eyes and see nobody staring back at him except Jim Kirk. He wouldn’t do his level best to disguise his smile while he sniped at De, because De always did _his_ level best to make him break character at least once. It was over, and that weight sat right over his heart in a way that he hadn’t expected. It felt like he had lost the dearest friend he’d ever known. 

Almost. 

The dearest friend he had ever known was sitting as far away from the set as he could possibly get, looking stiff and tired in his clothes. Like a kid who had outgrown his Halloween costume two years earlier, but still insisted on wearing it, no matter how uncomfortable it became. His face was drawn, the deep furrows around his mouth adding years. He looked like he was sitting at a funeral, and in a way he was, and in a larger way he wasn’t, and Leonard didn’t really know what to do about that. There was his casket. There were the bagpipes Jimmy would use for the scene. The rest of the cast milled around, looking as tired and wrung out, so in a way, he was attending his own funeral. 

Normally, Leonard wouldn’t dream of interrupting Bill when he was so clearly lost in thought, but this wasn’t a normal situation. This wasn’t a normal pain in his chest. The voice in his head belonged to a dead man who didn’t seem to understand that Leonard had no more use for him. And Bill looked like somebody had smacked him upside the head with a shovel. 

“Mind if I sit?” 

Bill shook his head. 

“It’s a good film,” Leonard tried. 

Bill snorted softly and nodded. “I guess that makes it worth it.” 

“What?” 

“I’m trying to get ready to say goodbye to my best friend forever.” 

“You’re…” Leonard stopped himself. What was he going to say? He couldn’t even convince himself he wasn’t as his own funeral, so what was he going to say? 

“Do you think Spock would be insulted?” 

Leonard shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“The line. About being the most human.” Bill’s lips twitched into an approximation of a smile. “He always used to hate that before.” 

“I don’t think he’d mind this time.” 

_When the honor and responsibility of the Enterprise fell on Spock’s shoulders, he accepted it without a sense of pride, only one of duty. With Jim’s promotion in rank to Admiral, it was only logical than he would be given the title, the ship, the chair. He was the most qualified to take that step, and even the prospect of training the cadets and preparing them for their first mission on the Starfleet’s flagship vessel didn’t overwhelm him, surprise him, awe him, frighten him. It was nothing more than another responsibility, the next step in his career._

_It was a sudden, expected shift, and he took it in stride. What he couldn’t admit to anybody—what he daren’t even admit to himself—was that he didn’t want to be the captain. He had a captain. One who he would follow anywhere, and one that was more than capable of guiding his ship. Neither ever spoke of it, but Spock suspected they both had the same feeling. Kirk’s reward had been a confusing, unsettling punishment. Something neither of them had asked for, and every moment after his promotion brought them closer to the same truth. Spock would be absconding with Jim Kirk’s ship, like two lovers slipping away into an inky night, abandoning the man who had given them everything._

_Sometimes, Spock felt like he couldn’t even look his friend in the eye. Even when Jim cupped his face and held him just a little bit too tightly. He was scared of so many things, and Spock sensed that fear, but he didn’t know how to sooth it. It was an emotion he knew too well and one that didn’t make any sense to him, so when Jim held him a bit too tight, his fingers—still so strong—pressing into Spock’s back, he just returned the embrace._

_Spock’s chest hurt every time Jim strolled into a room. It hurt worse when he left._

“I didn’t think you’d be on set today,” Bill said, still mostly looking at his lap. 

“It felt like I should be. Who keeps playing that song?” 

Bill shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess they’re getting it ready for the shot.” 

“Are you ready for the shot?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

“No. I think…I need to be alone right now, Len. I need to focus.” 

“I understand,” Leonard said quickly. How many times had he told Bill to get the fuck out of his face because he was trying to work? How many times had he literally stood up and walked to the other side of the set because Bill did not understand that he needed his space? It wasn’t just his emotions he needed to call on for really intense scenes. He needed to dig deep and find Spock’s, tapping on something that literally felt alien to him. Something that felt like it was too large for his frame and sometimes, some very few times, he had wondered if that was what madness felt like. 

“Just until after we’re done. You’ll wait for me, right?” 

“I’ll wait. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Thanks. Hey, Len? I think…he really loved him.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.” 

_Jim couldn’t read anything too close to him, but he never mentioned it. Spock never knew the exact time Jim’s eyes started to fail him, but he did know when Jim started to hide it. He found excuses not to read when Spock was around, or he would ask Spock’s opinion on something and rely on him to provide the details. Spock didn’t know who he thought he was fooling. Even Dr. McCoy noticed the problem. McCoy had probably been trained to look for it. Spock understood that in humans, the eyes were often the first agents of betrayal._

_Jim didn’t want it to be an issue, so Spock ignored it, too. It was a form of delusion, and Spock knew it was illogical to participate, to even encourage, this delusion, but he needed it a little bit, too. He had perfect recall, which meant he could relive any moment, any hour, any event he chose. When he closed his eyes, Jim was perfect. When he opened his eyes, Jim was still perfect, but the mind, the soul, that Spock respected so much was locked in a body he knew completely and didn’t know at all. Humans aged so quickly._

_Too quickly._

_They barely had a chance to live, and then they were sent away. Then they were stolen away._

_Death was the proper and only end for all biological functions. The fact that Jim Kirk had escaped its clutches so many times didn’t change the fact that he, like everything in the universe, must meet his end._

_Somewhere far above them, Commander Scott supervised the refitting of the Enterprise. With full faith and confidence, he oversaw every detail. Overhead, worlds spun out into infinity. An endless number of possibilities fell into an endless number of combinations, and yet, there was only one Jim Kirk._

_Jim, whose eyes were failing. Whose ship would sail without him._

The key to being on a movie set was to block out everything that wasn’t immediate. You couldn’t think about the director sitting mere feet from you. You couldn’t think about the lights overhead, or the background noise that could never quite be silenced. You couldn’t think about the dozens of crewmembers. Somehow, you had to make sense of the space around you, even though what you saw wasn’t anything like what the audience would see. 

Bill could always do that. When he was in the middle of the scene, he was there. Completely. His mind wasn’t on the next shot. He drew on all the energy in the room, carelessly sapping from everybody around him. He seduced people into distraction, and when they were utterly lost, he took everything he needed. For all of that, he could be extremely generous. He could be. But he wasn’t that day. 

It was his chance to really shine, and Leonard knew he had every intention of capturing it. Nobody would be looking at anybody else on the screen. Nobody would even care. Emotionally, Bill was the only person who mattered. If he didn’t sell the scene, there wouldn’t be a movie. Leonard did not envy him. His final scene had been impossible. But it had been _final_. 

Bill was shaking when they finally wrapped. He disguised it by walking slowly, stiffly, off of the set. Nobody tried to intercept him. Nobody even said his name. For once, his eyes were inscrutable, and the tension in his mouth had only increased. It was the same tension Leonard noticed in his neck and shoulders. Where had he gone? What source had he tapped? What dark place had he looked into, unflinchingly, and what dark place had stared back? 

Leonard had known where he needed to go. As soon as he read the script, he knew where he needed to go. Because Spock had never feared death. Spock accepted inevitability. It was only logical, of course. When he sank to his knees, his hand against the glass, and it was the end of everything, Leonard couldn’t draw on fear. It had to be something else. Something far deeper, and expansive. There was no fear in the act. Not for Spock. And there was no logic there, either, though the script had not failed him. Spock’s choice was the only logical one. 

But he couldn’t play logic. He played relief. 

Leonard stood and followed Bill to his dressing room, falling in step behind him without thinking about it. 

_The Captain made all the right choices, but for once, it wasn’t enough. That realization wasn’t accompanied with a sense of disappointment. He could never be disappointed in Jim, in his captain. The decision had been made to follow him into every battle, to support him at every turn, to offer everything he had, to die for him. That decision had been made so long ago that it ceased being second nature and became a fact of his life. There was no question of what he’d be willing to do, of what he’d be willing to sacrifice._

_There_ is _no question._

_Jim’s mortality had weighed on him, making him old before his time. It had weighed on Spock, too, until they were both locked in a strange obsession that had neither use nor merit. Why waste the time worrying about his eyes when he could wear spectacles? Why waste time worrying about the Enterprise when Jim would always find his way back to his ship? Why waste time worrying about Jim’s death when the question had been settled?_

_He wasn’t going to lose his captain._

_The decision happens fast. It is logical. It is right. It is the only solution. And he’s only a little sorry to walk off the bridge for the final time._

Leonard made it a point to not look over his shoulder as he strolled off the set. He wouldn’t be returning to the soundstage. There was no need for that. The weight didn’t lift from his chest as he walked away. There was no sense of closure. In the film, his casket would be shot from the Enterprise and deep into space—a proper burial at sea. But on that day, the prop that served as his final resting place just slid a few feet on a conveyer belt and then came to a stop and the director yelled cut. 

“You got through it,” Leonard said when they were alone.

“I hated it.” 

“I know.” 

Bill collapsed in his chair and pulled at his costume. “This thing is so fucking hot. Sometimes, I miss our old uniforms.” 

“I know what you mean.” 

Leonard hadn’t followed him so they could discuss their wardrobes. He felt strangely naked without the annoying ears glued to his head. He got accustomed to how they felt against his skin, until it felt weird not to wear them. 

It occurred to him that he just really missed Spock. There was no closure there, though Leonard didn’t know what else they could possibly do. Have a real funeral? He’d get over it in a few days. It was just difficult to bid farewell to something—to somebody—who had become so much of a part of him. 

“You should smile more, Len.” 

The words stunned Leonard from his thoughts. “What?” 

“You should really smile more. You look so…dour all the time.” 

“I look dour?” 

“Yes. It’s depressing.” 

“You look like you’re about to cry.” 

Bill blinked. “I don’t.” 

“You do. You’ve looked like that since this morning. You’re depressing everybody around here.” 

“I am? You showed up on the set just to lurk like…like some sort of fucking ghost.” 

“A ghost? Do I need to remind you that I’m not actually dead?” 

“Obviously not, since you’ve been hovering over me for the past five minutes.” 

“Hovering? I haven’t been hovering. I came in to make you feel better.” 

“Well, you’re doing a hell of a job of that, Lenny.” 

“Oh, fuck you, Shatner.” 

Bill smiled at that. Like Leonard sort of suspected he would. “You’ve got such a dirty mouth. It’s hot. I wasn’t kidding earlier.” 

“What? You weren’t kidding earlier about what?” 

“That Kirk loved him. Really loved him.” 

“I wasn’t kidding, either.” 

“What do you think was going on between them?” 

Leonard collapsed in the chair beside him and put his legs up, resting his feet on the makeup counter. He needed a drink. And a smoke. 

“I don’t know if…we don’t need to talk about that.” 

“Why not?”

Because there wasn’t anything to talk about and there hadn’t been for a long time. 

 

_  
As Spock realized what was happening to the crew, something dark and slick oozed through him. He kept it at bay, ignoring the way it clawed at his throat and made it difficult to breathe. Nobody wanted to be completely vulnerable. Nobody wanted to have their facades stripped away, exposing their broken and aching and beautiful inner-selves. When Nurse Chapel touched his hand, that strange sensation solidified into genuine fear. Her fingers had seemed impossibly cold, her palm sweaty despite that. When he looked into her eyes, he saw nothing except sincerity. She meant every word coming out of her mouth, and her gaze probed his, begging him to understand._

__I know you don’t, you couldn’t, hurt me…

_As soon as she said the words, Spock knew he would hurt her. Every word and glance would cut her down. Because he didn’t know how to love her. Even if he allowed himself the luxury, even if he could possibly allow himself such a thing, he wouldn’t know the first thing about loving a woman like Nurse Chapel. She said he was half-human, said he was a good man, said she was in love with him, and whether or not all those declarations were facts, they were completely impertinent._

_She held on to his hand, and the contact disgusted him. He didn’t want her to touch him. He didn’t want anybody to touch him. Oh, he would hurt her. He would destroy her. He would take everything from her, using her up, and when she turned to him, he would have nothing to offer in return. She would become a husk of a woman in her patience. She would be weak for him, and that would disgust him more than her touch. She would reach out to him, and, in his disgust, he would deny her. Spock saw it all so clearly. It was all so obvious to him, why wasn’t it so obvious to her, too?_

_“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. He hoped she would forget about her weakness, but humans could be curiously shameless about their emotional frailty. He resolved to forget for both of them and made his not-at-all graceful escape._

“I just feel so…empty inside. Because _he_ feels empty,” Bill admitted. “It’s awful.” 

“I know.” 

“Why did we agree to this?” 

Leonard didn’t answer, because he didn’t quite know what Bill was referring to. The script? Or something else? 

“I feel stupid,” Bill added under his breath, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. 

“You feel stupid? I didn’t think that was possible.” Leonard waited a beat, but the smile he was expecting never happened. Bill just continued to look miserable, his eyes still more than a little damp. 

“This is it. There ain’t no more.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“For us.” 

“No, it’s not. We’re still friends. We’ll still see each other.” 

“No, I mean…God, you know what I mean, Len. This is awful. Did I mention that?” 

“You have, but I don’t mind hearing it again.” 

“I don’t know if there’s going to be another film, but I don’t see how there could be. I just don’t see it…” 

“As long as you’re willing to play Jim Kirk, there’s a chance for another movie. That fact isn’t going to change.” 

“Maybe I’m not willing.” 

Leonard blinked. “What are you talking about?” 

“You think I want to put myself through this again? Did you hear me before? I’m just hollow.” 

“You’re not hollow.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s rich coming from the guy who showed up for his own funeral.” 

“Why would you say that, Bill?” 

“Because it’s true.” 

“I already told you once I’m not…” 

“I know what you said. It doesn’t really change anything. Not for me,” Bill snapped. “Not right now.” 

Leonard made his decision in a split second. In a moment of perfect clarity he saw all his options, all the right choices, all the wrong ones, all the consequences. And with his decision made, he pressed his mouth to Bill’s. Maybe to prove he was still alive. Maybe to prove he wasn’t Spock. Maybe because a part of him—a large part of him—was Spock. Maybe because he was done talking. Maybe because nothing really made sense, and so a nonsensical act didn’t seem out of place at all. 

_Shame. No matter where Spock went, no matter what he accomplished, no matter who he met, that would follow him. He only had one thought, and that was to get away from curious eyes. He should have been impervious to the attack. While the crew fell apart, exposing themselves in the most undignified, most human ways, he should have been standing at the center, completely calm. He vaguely recalled that Lieutenant Uhura was looking for him, that Captain Kirk needed him, that everything was falling apart. But it was difficult to reach those facts through the curtains of shame hanging between himself and the rest of the world._

_Nurse Chapel had reminded him of his mother. She always looked at him with the same imploring eyes. She understood he was his father’s son, but she wanted a part of Spock, too, and he could never give it to her. Not if he wanted to be a Vulcan, and he did. He wanted to be in complete control of his emotions. He wanted to purge all of his emotions. He wished he didn’t know enough to feel guilt._

_Every flood of emotion that washed through him was meant with an equally sized flood of shame. And self-loathing. If his father knew, he would tell Spock that self-loathing was completely illogical. Why hate yourself for something out of your control? Except, of course, it wasn’t completely out of control. If he had fully embraced the Vulcan way of life, then this wouldn’t be out of his control. It would very much be in his control, and he wouldn’t be sitting in an empty room, silent except for his own sobs._ How undignified. How illogical. How human. How ridiculous.

_The doors slid open, and Spock knew it was without lifting his head. His entire body always responded to Jim’s presence, and it makes him crazy to be so completely attuned to another man. To a human, no less._

_He had devastated his mother. He would destroy Nurse Chapel. But he knew he would never hurt Jim Kirk. Even when he struck back, sending him flying across the room, Spock knew he would never hurt him._

Bill responded to the kiss immediately, his fingers digging into Leonard’s back. It felt exactly as he had imagined it would, and the thought unsettled him. Had he really fantasized about this? Had he really considered it in such minute detail that he knew exactly how Bill’s ( _Kirk’s_ ) hands would feel against his back? 

Or maybe he hadn’t thought about it enough, because he wasn’t prepared for the way Bill tasted, or the way he kissed him back. He was still seated and Leonard was bent over at the waist, which made the angle more than a little awkward. He sank to his knees without breaking the kiss, and Bill only tightened his hold. They were locked together, and it wasn’t the first time, but it was. Outside the dressing room doors ( _captain’s quarters_ ) nothing had changed, and nobody out there could be aware of just how frantic Bill’s mouth was as their lips met, broke apart, met again. 

Leonard pulled at his shirt, but the material was as stiff as it looked. He forced it up Bill’s ribs, but it caught at his arms. He tugged again, but it wasn’t coming free any time soon. At the third failed attempt, they broke apart from each other, both of them laughing. 

Leonard rested his head on Bill’s shoulder. “What are we doing here?” 

“Fighting with my shirt.” 

“I meant other than that.” 

“Something we probably should have done a long time ago.” Bill leaned back, and as if by magic, the tunic disappeared, and so did the softer t-shirt underneath. “Do you disagree?” 

Leonard shook his head. He didn’t disagree. 

_Three days to relive. What did one do with three days that should have never existed? Spock had never considered the ramifications of time travel in depth, because he had never actually travelled back in time. But now there were three fresh days that already existed. Turning back the clock did not undo anything that happened. No matter how far the chronometer moved, the captain still sent him curious, knowing looks. He had seen Spock torn down to his most basic elements, and though Spock would insist it was just a result of the virus, and therefore not real, both of them knew it was very real._

_Captain Kirk loved too easily. He loved the wrong person. He loved for all the wrong reasons. And Spock could not love at all. Though they approached from the opposite ends, they met in the middle, standing face to face at an impasse. Neither of them could step to the side. Not even with three impossible days._

_Spock considered broaching the topic, then dismissed the idea. They had an unspoken agreement, and Spock would not be the one who broke it. He certainly didn’t want Kirk ask about what he had heard. He could only be relieved that Kirk had not witnessed the unfortunate scene with Nurse Chapel. What would he have thought of that? What would he have said? After some consideration, Spock decided Kirk wouldn’t have said a word._

_But there was still that knowing look. The knowing look that revealed he knew nothing at all. Sometimes, when Spock turned his head quickly, he saw Kirk watching him, his eyebrows furrowed in a tiny little frown of concentration. Somehow, in their attempt to avoid discussing what happened, they avoided discussing everything. Until the captain cornered Spock in his own quarters, strolling in with the same ownership he exhibited when he strolled onto the bridge._

_“Good evening, Captain.”_

_Kirk smiled. “Let’s have a seat, Spock.”_

_Spock obediently waited until the captain sat before taking his own seat. He waited patiently for Kirk to speak first. The captain opened his mouth once, closed it, opened it again, then leaned forward._

_“I heard about what happened between you and Nurse Chapel.”_

_Spock arched his brow. “How did you learn of that, Captain?”_

_“Before McCoy gave her the vaccination, she…cried it out on his shoulder.”_

_“And McCoy told you, Captain?”_

_“He did. And I know it’s none of my business…”_

_“You are right, Captain. It is not.”_

_Kirk blinked, but it wasn’t enough to make him back down. “I just wanted to let you know that it wouldn’t be inappropriate to have a relationship with her.”_

_“I assure you, it would be.”_

_“What? Why? Nurse Chapel is a kind, beautiful woman. Most men would be thrilled if she were to look their direction.”_

_“I am not most men, Captain.”_

_“No…no, you’re not. I just wanted to discuss it…in case you wanted to talk about it.”_

_“Is that all?”_

_“Yes. Well, no. You haven’t seemed yourself since…”_

_“I wasn’t myself then.”_

_“No, you were.” He reached over and took Spock’s hand. “That’s fine, too.”_

_Spock shook his head. “I was ill. Manipulated into losing my self-control. And if it wasn’t for you, I might have been responsible for destroying the ship.”_

_Kirk had not let go of his hand, and it felt like more than just a friendly grip. In fact, it felt like Kirk never had any intention of letting him go. Spock stood, hoping that would prompt Kirk into releasing him, but Kirk merely shadowed him. Now not only was he holding Spock’s hand, he was standing too close, openly studying Spock’s face. Spock gazed back without blinking, patiently waiting for Kirk to explain._

_After a long moment, Kirk sighed and reached up with his free hand. He hooked his finger beneath Spock’s chin, holding him in place. Not that Spock could have moved, even if he really wanted to. Kirk pulled him a little closer, until their chests were flush, and Kirk’s mouth pressed against his tenderly._

_Spock had kissed, and been kissed, many times in his life. Possibly more than Kirk would have suspected. He knew exactly what to expect, and he even knew how to respond. But he remained still, motionless. Waiting for something. Perhaps waiting for Kirk to give up. Or maybe for some sort of explanation. No matter how Spock worked over the problem, he could not understand what was happening._

_“Spock…you don’t need to be ashamed.” He caught Spock’s bottom lip between his, almost teasing him into responding. “You don’t.”_

_“Captain? Jim?”_

_“About the two of us. I know, you’re a Vulcan. No emotions.” Kirk spoke between kisses. Spock felt himself weakening. How would it be to completely give in? If he opened his mouth and responded to the kiss, what would Jim think? What would it be like? Would it be like kissing a woman? No, it wouldn’t be anything like that. Jim’s mouth was larger, his lips more firm. “But when it comes to the two of us, you don’t need to be ashamed of what you feel.”_

_“Captain…”_

_“Just trust me.”_

_Either Spock trusted his captain or he didn’t. That’s what it came down to. He either trusted Jim or he didn’t. He gripped Jim’s shoulder, pulled him closer, and opened beneath the Jim’s ministrations. Jim sighed with approval, and they stumbled back until the wall caught them, supporting them as they focused on each other._

Somehow, they ended up on the floor beneath the make-up counter, naked except for their socks, their hands frantic and hungry. Bill kept saying his name, almost desperately. Like he didn’t want to forget it. Or he didn’t want Leonard to forget it. His cheeks still tasted faintly of salt, and every time it seemed like Bill might say something other than his name, Leonard claimed his mouth and caught the sound. He didn’t want to hear anything that might sound too much like his own thoughts. 

He didn’t even want to hear his own name. 

There was Vaseline on the counter above them, and Leonard reached for it first, while Bill sucked on his neck, marking his skin. It occurred to him that he should tell him to stop doing that, but Leonard was completely past the point of caring. His cock ached, the pain only increasing each time his sensitive head scraped across Bill’s skin. A few times, it caught the wiry hair at the base of Bill’s cock, sending strange electric shocks down his spine. 

Leonard dipped his fingers into the jar and pulled out a thick gob. He slicked it over his erection, smoothing it up and down his length. Bill had lost interest in his neck, choosing instead to lick and nibble on Leonard’s chest, working his way to his nipple. 

“This’ll be easier if we move,” Leonard suggested. 

Bill hooked his ankles around Leonard’s legs. “No. Don’t want to move.” 

“But I might…” Leonard paused. He could see just by looking at Bill’s face that he didn’t care if Leonard was in danger of smashing his head on the counter above them. He wasn’t moving, and it was as simple as that. Leonard hated when Bill got in one of his stubborn moods. He could usually argue him right out of it again, but fuck if Leonard was going to take the time to do it now. 

Leonard worked his way slowly into Bill’s waiting body. He moved as carefully as he could, aware in an academic way that it would be painful. Especially since, as far as Leonard knew, Bill had never done anything like this before. First time or not, Bill was enthusiastic. When Leonard paused to catch his breath, Bill tightened his legs, pulling him forward. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like no matter what Leonard did, it wouldn’t be enough. 

“Did you ever think about this before?” Bill gasped. 

“I…” 

“Tell me.” 

“Yes,” Leonard admitted. 

“The two of them?” Bill clutched at him. “Together?” 

“Yes.” 

“How long?” 

_Jim sighed with approval, and they stumbled back until the wall caught them, supporting them as they focused on each other. Jim’s muscles tensed and flexed against him, holding him in place. His cock had hardened, the erection brushing against Jim’s hip. Jim’s fingers still clasped his, but his other hand wandered down Spock’s body until it came to a rest at his crotch._

“Years.” 

“How many?” 

“Bill…I’m trying to concentrate here.” 

“I want to know.” 

Leonard pushed forward, filling Bill completely. Forget concentrating. The heat hugging his shaft was enough to completely steal his breath. How was Bill still capable of thinking? How was he even capable of speech? 

“Len…please…” 

“Since…almost since the beginning. That long. After that scene…” Leonard could barely remember that anything before that moment existed, but Bill was looking at him expectantly. Waiting for his answer. “The one I improvised. About Spock’s feelings. That long.” 

Bill looked at him curiously for a moment, and then understanding dawned. It was difficult to tell in the lighting beneath the counter, but he thought Bill’s eyes were shining. “Yeah, I remember. What did you want to do?” 

Leonard swallowed. “Please tell me you don’t want a detailed explanation, Bill.” 

He shook his head. “Show me. Just show me.” 

“Gladly,” Leonard murmured with a shudder. 

_Despite Jim massaging Spock through his pants, the captain was the first one to lose his pants. Or mostly lose them. They were pushed down to his ankles, the material caught on his boots, his cock jutting in front of him. The more Spock touched him, the more he wanted. The more he received, the more he wanted. Like he could not be satiated, no matter how much he took._

Bill was tight. Tighter than Leonard expected. It was difficult to move—and being in the cramped space didn’t help. Instead of easing out and thrusting forward, he merely rocked, happy for the heat, even if he couldn’t increase the friction. Bill finally stopped talking. His head was back, his mouth opening and closing with silent gasps, his pleasure contorting every line of his face, every muscle in his body. Leonard realized with a start that he never saw this before. When his mind drifted, he never saw _this_. Even after all the years they spent together, he had been entirely incapable of imagining, of understanding, exactly how it would be. 

_Spock bent Jim over the table, face down, his hand pressed between Jim’s shoulders. He kept expecting Jim to resist him, to try to fight against his hold, but he didn’t even struggle. The muscles in his back formed perfect planes, and his warm, taut skin felt like some sort of living silk beneath his fingers. His bones were fragile, like warm glass. Spock could break him._

The power of speech returned to Bill all at once. Leonard didn’t mind. Somewhere in the silence, he realized he missed the sound of Bill’s voice. 

“Don’t stop. I…I…need you…not to stop.” 

“Is it okay?” Leonard asked, without thinking. 

“It’s okay.” 

_“It’s okay, Spock. It’s okay. Don’t stop.”_

“Faster. Please, Len. I can take it.” 

Leonard responded without thinking, his hips moving of their own accord, his body pulsing in time with Bill’s. More memories cluttered his mind, trying to distract him, but Leonard pushed them all away. Every image. Every word. None of it meant anything, but the man with his arms and legs wrapped around him, sucking on his ear, muttering encouragement, whispering against his neck, nibbling at his throat…he mattered. In that place, nothing had ever mattered more. 

They moved together like this was the thousandth time, not the first. Faster and slower without warning, harder and softer without reason. Everything was without reason. Leonard lost his and he didn’t miss it. Not until his reality finally shattered, with Bill flexing around him, and their mouths locked together one more time. 

_His flexed fingers marked Jim’s skin, though he didn’t mean it. Ten perfect bruises on his hips._

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

“No.”

Leonard took a deep breath, but he didn’t move. Bill didn’t seem to be in a hurry to push him away. 

“I’m just going to miss him, I think,” Bill finally said.

“Did you ever think about…this?” Leonard wished he had thought to ask earlier. 

“Sure.” 

“When?” 

“When you bent over your computer and I realized how great you looked in those pants.” 

Leonard frowned down at him, almost called him Jim just to see what he would do, and kissed him instead. 


End file.
